to the stars who listen: poetry

43. Persephone

Time passes like a blade whistling past your ear. Crimson blossoms on your ghost-white palms; you keep them clenched but the ink of her words is stained onto them forever and eventually you find yourself wishing you couldn't read. the silver star that illuminated her blue eyes returned to its place in the night sky after what you did, but you can still taste her gold and honey in your mouth. the residue of her touch lingers in darkness on your skin like gossamer, you feel as though you will burn to death with the pain of it, and the remnants of her heart are in a box beneath your bed. each day you try fruitlessly to put them back together, but some wounds will not heal, some things that are broken cannot be fixed. and then her voice in your ear, her breath cold, strands of her hair lightly brushing your shoulder. she tells you you'll pay for the things you've done. you respond that you're doing so every day. she is silent as she repeats your own words back to you, her voice cracking like an ice river. you do not deserve forgiveness. she hurls another blade. every droplet of blood spilled is dirty with debt. —  forgiveness doesn't exist in Hell.